The bike's engine thrummed beneath us, a steady pulse against the silence. Rain hammered the windscreen, turning London into a blur of orange lights and shadow. My shoulder throbbed where shrapnel had torn through during the escape. Not deep. Just enough to bleed through my jacket and make every turn feel like broken glass grinding into muscle.
Sebastian drove like he was outrunning ghosts. Fast but controlled. His body tense against mine where I held on behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. I could feel his heartbeat through his tactical vest. Steady. Focused.
Greenwich emerged from the dark ahead. Old warehouses squatting like tombstones along the Thames. Abandoned docks where rust and river water ate through steel. The kind of neighborhood where screams got swallowed by fog and bodies disappeared into the current.
Perfect for a safehouse. Perfect for people like us.
The boathouses appeared through the rain. Derelict facades hiding reinforced bunkers underneath. Luka's work. Adrian's money. The combination had built something that looked dead from outside but hummed with life within.
Sebastian slowed at the gate. Killed the engine. The sudden silence felt wrong after the mechanical roar.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Da. Is just scratch.”
“You're bleeding through your jacket.”
“Is still just scratch.”
He dismounted first, offered his hand. I took it because refusing would've been stupid pride, and stupid pride got people killed. The ground felt unsteady under my boots. Blood loss, probably. Not enough to matter. Just enough to make the world tilt slightly left.
The gate opened. Luka stood there, rifle slung over his shoulder, grinning like this was all some grand joke. “Late as usual, Volkov. You're slipping.”
“Still alive, aren't I?”
“Barely. You look like shit.” His eyes tracked to my shoulder, to the blood seeping through fabric. “Inside. Now. Before you bleed out on my doorstep and ruin the aesthetic.”
Sebastian's hand stayed on my good arm as we walked. Guiding. Supporting without making it obvious. I appreciated that more than I'd admit.
The interior was warmth and light and the smell of gun oil mixed with coffee. Familiar. Safe as anything in our world could be safe.
Adrian looked up from the main table as we entered. His eyes went to my shoulder immediately. “Noah.”
Noah appeared from the side room, medical kit already in hand. He took one look at me and pointed to a chair. “Sit.”
“Is not that bad.”
“Sit anyway.” His voice carried that particular mix of gentleness and steel that meant arguing would be pointless. “Or I'll have Adrian make you sit.”
I sat.
The room was full. Dom stood near the weapons locker, watching with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Troy and Dmitri flanked the entrance, both armed, both alert. Troy was built like he could stop a truck, all solid muscle and military bearing. Dmitri wasleaner, Russian angles and nervous hands. Both good men. Both people I'd trust to watch my back.
Ash leaned against the far wall, all leather and tattoos and survivor's instinct. Luka's husband. The kind of sharp that came from being broken and choosing to stay sharp instead of shattering.
Sebastian moved to stand beside me as Noah worked. Didn't touch. Just stood close enough that I could feel his presence. Grounding. Real.
“Report first or medical attention first?” Adrian asked.
“Both,” I said. “Can do both.”
“Stubborn bastard,” Noah muttered. He'd already cut away my jacket, was cleaning the wound with steady hands. Medical training made him efficient. Living with Adrian made him unshakeable. “Shrapnel. Went through clean. You're lucky.”
“Story of my life.”
“Shirt off.”
I complied. Let him work. Felt Sebastian's eyes on the wound, on the damage we'd collected tonight.
